


Let's drive far, far away... and not stop 'til we find home

by revolving_doors



Series: Maps [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 20:49:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1023226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revolving_doors/pseuds/revolving_doors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles doesn't know what it is about this day and not all the others that makes him do it. He just hits the gas and tries not to think about how the knot in the pit of his stomach loosens as he passes the Leaving Beacon Hills sign.<br/>AKA the one where Stiles goes to see Derek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's drive far, far away... and not stop 'til we find home

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for season 3a.  
> The title is from a quote but I don't know who by so give me a heads up if you know and I'll adore you forever!  
> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://backdatedloveletters.tumblr.com/)[](http://backdatedloveletters.tumblr.com/)  
> This is my first Teen Wolf fic so be gentle with me!  
> 

[  
](http://backdatedloveletters.tumblr.com/)

Stiles checks the GPS tracker every night. He methodically marks each new coordinate on the map on his computer, staring at the pattern they make like it’s a puzzle to solve.

Sometimes the dots form a straight line, miles long and unwavering. Stiles pictures Derek driving, arm resting on the open window, shoulders loose in a way Stiles can only imagine; he’s never seen Derek relaxed and carefree. Cora is there too, feet up on the dash no matter how many times Derek swats at them with a _quit it_ that has no bite behind it _._ Sometimes Stiles puts himself in the image; lounging in the back seat with a mouthful of twizzlers and a never-ending supply of snarky comments about how much dogs enjoy putting their heads out of car windows. Sometimes it’s the only thing that gets him to sleep at night.

The dots huddle up together around the full moon. It’s some way off the main highway, no obvious houses, just mile after mile of trees. Stiles wonders what it’s like to be a werewolf when there’s not crazy hunters or kanimas or alpha packs or darachs or a beacon calling out into the night to worry about. He doesn’t picture Derek frolicking in the undergrowth – that’s a step too far for anyone’s imagination – but Stiles can envisage the satisfying stretch of muscles that have been confined for too long, the steady rhythm of running for the sake it; not a panicked, adrenaline-fueled sprint to get there soon enough or get away fast enough. He can see Derek out of breath and laughing but it’s all out of focus, no reference point in his memory from which to build the laughter lines and wide-toothed grin.

A few times the coordinates snake back on themselves as if Derek and Cora are searching for something but keep hitting dead ends. Or maybe they’re not looking for anything in particular, maybe they’re just driving for the sake of driving, no destination in mind. The Great American Roadtrip. Stiles can see himself slurping down the last of a milkshake at a roadside diner while Derek orders another slice of pie for the road. Cora’s picking up some supplies in the gas station next door. She meets them back at the car with four different types of chips and a magazine with Miley Cyrus on the cover. They take turns reading the sex tips out loud and laughing as Derek turns deeper and deeper shades of red. Stiles tries hard not to think of another version where it’s just him and Derek and he’s the only one supplying a running commentary on _Oral sex tips that will blow his mind_. The version where instead of blushing Derek slams on the brakes, glares at Stiles and tells him that he doesn’t need a magazine to tell him how to suck someone’s cock, unzips Stiles’ pants and shows him just how true that is.

*

The points slow their march across the map, finally settling in a single spot. Stiles labels it _Home_ then goes back and adds a question mark. _Home?_

_*_

The dot hasn’t moved in over a month the day he’s driving back from Lacrosse practice and turns left instead of right. Stiles doesn’t know what it is about this day and not all the others that makes him do it. He just hits the gas and tries not to think about how the knot in the pit of his stomach loosens as he passes the _Leaving Beacon Hills_ sign.

*

It’s late afternoon when Stiles turns off the main road. The dirt track is unkempt and over-grown at the edges, the jeep kicking up dust as she goes. It makes him think of Derek’s Camaro and how strange it had looked, all pristine and shiny parked outside that burnt shell of a house. Stiles doesn’t know what happened to it, remembers seeing Derek’s new car for the first time and realizing that was why he hadn’t spotted Derek all summer. Not that he’d been looking. That summer when he and Scott had thought it had all been temporary, that they’d saved the day and that things were going to get back to normal. Well, as normal as possible when your best friend is a werewolf.

How wrong they’d been.

He rounds the corner and catches sight of a house through the trees. It’s set back in a clearing, smaller than the Hale house had been before it burnt down. From the outside it looks like it’s made from logs, the dilapidated remains of a porch running the length of the front. A derelict wood shed sits off to the side with Derek’s car parked in front of it. The whole place looks like it’s seen better days.

It’s only when he turns off the engine that Stiles realizes he has absolutely no idea how he’s going to explain showing up here. He’s trying to decide if he should just head back to the main road before anyone realizes he’s here when the front door opens. Derek takes a step forward into the afternoon light and crosses his arms. He looks straight at Stiles and huffs out a resigned sigh, shaking his head as if Stiles showing up is the least unexpected thing ever.

“Stiles.”

“Derek.” He tumbles out of the jeep, brain going from zero to sixty in less than a minute, settling on the snarky with a side of sarcasm that Derek seems to bring out in him. “I see that _condemned_ _by the County_ is still one of your prerequisites for choosing a place to live.”

“I’m trying to deter unwanted houseguests,” Derek retorts. He doesn’t move from his spot in the doorway.

Not that Stiles is deterred in the least. It’s not like he thought Derek would be there waiting for him with open arms. It’s not like he’s thought through any of this at all. Still, a lack of plan has never stopped him before. Stiles walks up to the edge of the rickety porch. “So you’re not going to invite me in then?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Yeah, because a lack of invitation has ever stopped you before.”

“Says the lurkiest lurker who lurks,” Stile laughs incredulously. “Or have you forgotten about the time you snuck into my bedroom -” He can feel himself blushing and it’s not what he meant at all.

Luckily, Derek’s already got his back to him, half way through the open front door. “Just get inside Stiles.”

Stiles doesn’t need to be told twice. He hops up the step and follows the other man through the door.

Derek stops in the middle of the room. “Do you want a drink?” he asks, not sounding particularly hospitable.

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles replies. Derek disappears off into what Stiles can only assume is the kitchen. He’s not sure if Derek expects him to follow or not so decides to just stay where he is. The inside of the cabin is a lot more homely than the outside suggests, furniture dated but comfy-looking, big open fireplace with a watercolor of a wooded landscape perched above the mantel.

“It’s a definite improvement on your last place,” Stiles offers, not bothering to raise his voice since Derek has the whole super-hearing thing going on. “And not just because there’s no gaping hole in one of the walls.”

“What makes you think I’ve started caring what you think?” Derek says, coming back into the living room. He tosses a bottle of water in Stiles’ direction, throwing him off balance as he tries to catch it. It seems to amuse Derek because he smiles, eyes crinkling at the edges. His shoulders are soft and loose and it’s everything and nothing like Stiles has imagined. He’s so caught up in Derek’s smile that he squeezes the bottle too tight and a jet of water gushes up into his face.

“Smooth,” Derek smirks, making no move to help. Instead he turns towards the front door, swiping a set of car keys from the coffee table. “I’m going to pick up Cora. Don’t touch anything.”

Stiles stands there, water dripping from his nose, as Derek slams the door behind him. “Good to see you too buddy,” he mutters sarcastically.

*

It could have gone worse, he supposes. After all, there was no punching or blood loss, Derek hasn’t sent him home and no-one’s died. In comparison to the last few times he and Derek have been in the same room together it’s a definite improvement. And now he gets the chance to snoop through Derek’s stuff. Positives all round.

It turns out there’s not much snooping to be done though. Kitchen with what looks like leftover lasagna in the fridge, bathroom off to the side with one of those claw-footed bathtubs and a crack in the mirror over the sink. He turns the faucet on, surprised when the water runs clear. Both the bedrooms are sparsely decorated; from the pile of books sitting on the bedside table he guesses the bigger room is Derek’s. In no time at all Stiles finds himself back in the living room. He drops down onto the brown and orange swirl-patterned sofa and sighs. No tv. He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket but all that does is remind him that he’s been dodging his Dad and Scott’s calls. He’s texted them; they know he’s alive and that he’s fine but he hasn’t told them any more than that. He quickly shoves his cell back in his pocket – out of sight, out of mind – and drops his head back until he can see the exposed beams in the roof.

Waiting has never been his strong point.

*

The first thing Stiles notices is a strange musty smell and then he’s flailing around trying to stop it from suffocating him and it’s only then that he realizes that he’s had his face mushed up against the arm of the couch and _whoa, this is not his couch, this is… Derek’s couch? Yeah this is Derek’s couch and yup, that’s Derek over there in the armchair and_ , “What am – where – I – Hi.”

“Hi,” Derek says back.

Stiles scrubs an arm across his face, trying to rub the fuzziness out of his brain. It’s dark outside, the only real light coming from the door to the kitchen. “How long was I asleep?”

“A while. You were like that when I got back.”

Stiles stretches his back until his spine clicks. After months of insomnia trust him to fall asleep on the most uncomfortable couch ever. “Right," he remembers. “You went to get Cora.” He looks around for the other Hale. “And she is?”

“She’s staying with a friend.”

Stiles can’t help but snigger in disbelief. “Wow, a friend huh? I didn’t think you Hales were capable of making friends.”

Derek ignores his comment. He furrows his eyebrows and crosses his arms, suddenly serious. “Scott said you haven’t been sleeping.”

“So that’s what you were really doing? You know, I liked it better when you were hostile and uncooperative and kept things from Scott,” Stiles snaps, shoulders coming up defensively

“ _You_ showed up on _my_ doorstep,” Derek points out.

Which, okay, yes he did. But while he might not be entirely sure what made him drive here he does know that it definitely wasn’t for an intervention on his bad sleeping habits. He glares at Derek. “Oh believe me, I’m realizing what an epically terrible idea that was.”

Derek glares straight back. “Running away won’t solve anything.”

Stiles isn’t sure if he means running away from Beacon Hills or running away from the conversation. What he does know is that Derek is the last person who should be giving him advice on the subject. He gets up on his feet, angry and riled up. His words come out spiteful and bitter. “That’s big coming from the guy whose signature move is running away.”

Derek is up in one fluid movement, right there in Stiles’ face. But there’s none of the hostility that’s been there all the other times they’ve argued. Instead he looks weary. “Yeah,” he says finally, “I’ve done a lot of running. And believe me; it doesn’t solve anything.”

Maybe it’s the sincerity behind Derek’s words, maybe it’s simply that Stiles has no more fight in him but he feels his anger deflate. “I’m not running away,” he says quietly.

And he’s not. He would never turn his back on his Dad or Scott; he’d burn down the whole goddamn world for them, rip out hearts with his bare hands if that was what it took.

“Then what are you doing here Stiles?” Derek asks, voice gentler than Stiles’ has ever heard it.

“I don’t know,” Stiles replies. But he does know. The darkness Deaton told them about has started to take hold. If he stops moving, if he lets himself relax for even a minute, his skin feels like it’s shrinking, squeezing and constricting until it’s too tight for his body. 

“It’s just hard,” he sighs finally.

“What is?”

Stiles bangs his hands against his thighs as he tries to come up with the words. “It’s, it’s like when you’re playing a video game,” he begins, and okay, he’s never seen Derek _play_ a video game but it’s the only analogy he’s got right now so he’s going to run with it. “And there’s the big bad monster at the end of the level so you fight and you fight and finally you beat it. But then there’s the next level and it’s just more of the same but they’re bigger and they’re tougher to beat and it’s not going to stop.” The words are rolling out of him now.  “I wouldn’t change it,” he continues, “what me and Scott and Allison did. If anything had happened to my Dad…” Even just thinking about it scares the hell out of him. He bites his lip, trying to push past the emotion but his voice ends up cracking anyway. “It’s just hard sometimes,” he shrugs, scrubbing at a tear that’s threatening to roll down his cheek. “Most of the time. It’s hard pretty much all of the time.”

Derek stares at him and there’s a look of understanding in his eyes. “You just want to be able to stop and breathe once in a while.”

Stiles lets out a shaky breath. “Exactly.”

Of course Derek understands.

And really, isn’t that what this is all about? It’s about all the times he felt invisible vines curling up around his legs as he lay in bed at night, the times when the sense of dread pressing down against his chest got so heavy he couldn’t breathe. It’s about how the only thing that could loosen the darkness’ grip was picturing Derek and about how that had gotten harder and harder to do the further away the dots moved on the map.

“What are you doing here Stiles?” Derek asks again and Stiles realizes just how close together they’re standing. Derek is right there in front of him, finally, after all these months.

He leans forward and presses the barest of touches against Derek’s lips. It’s the only answer he has.

And then Derek kisses Stiles. Derek chases his lips as Stiles starts to pull back, teeth catching on his bottom lip, tongue pushing inside, greedy and insistent.

It feels like absolution.

*

They make it to the bedroom somehow, Derek losing his shirt somewhere along the way.

Stiles still has on the last of the three shirts he’d been wearing, the other two now discarded on the other side of the bed.

“How many layers do you need?” Derek mutters irritably, tugging impatiently at sleeve of Stiles’ shirt.

“Not everyone has wolfy immunity to the cold,” he points out, reaching up to untangle his ear before Derek pulls the rest of the shirt over his head.

They’re both topless now, Stiles flat on his back with Derek propped up above him, busy sucking a bruise into the dip where Stiles’ collarbone meets his neck. He runs his own hand up Derek’s torso, thumb rubbing against a nipple and Derek moans, teeth grazing Stiles’ neck. The sound goes straight to Stiles’ dick, not that it can get any harder than it already is, and his hips buck up involuntarily. It’s unbelievably hot and he finds himself moaning too, breath catching in his throat when Derek grinds his hips down to meet him.

“Is the part when the pants come off?” he stutters out.

“Yeah?” Derek pants, lifting his head up to look at Stiles. He looks serious all of a sudden. “Are you sure?”

“Well at this point either the pants come off or I’m gonna come in my pants,” Stiles replies matter-of -factly, “and it’s not like I brought a change of clothes with me.”

Derek bunches up his eyebrows. “That’s not an answer.”

“I’m sure,” Stiles replies. And he is. None of this is an epiphany; he’s spent enough time jerking off to the thought of Derek Hale’s hand on his dick to know that being attracted to Derek is not a new concept or feeling. This is what he wants, _has wanted_ , for the longest time. “Very, very, very sure,” he nods emphatically.  

If anything, the unknown quantity in this equation is what Derek wants because, current situation notwithstanding, he’s never shown anything resembling a romantic interest in Stiles. “Are _you_ sure?” he asks, a jolt of fear catching in his chest that maybe Derek doesn’t really want this.

“Yes.” The thing that surprises Stiles the most is the shy grin that tugs at Derek’s lips after he’s said it. It just might be the most beautiful thing Stiles has ever seen.

He surges up and kisses Derek in a way that is not shy at all; deep and sloppy and it’s only when he really is dangerously close to coming in his pants that Derek rolls off him and starts tugging at his jeans. Derek’s come off in one fluid movement but Stiles is nowhere near as coordinated. He fights with his own fly for a moment, wriggles until his boxers and pants are around his ankles. He ends up floundering like a seal stuck on land to shake them off but instead of laughing Derek just waits until he’s finished, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

No-one’s ever looked at Stiles like that before. “You really want this,” Stiles says, a little in awe. “You really want to do this with me.”

“I do.” Derek slinks back down next to Stiles with a look of intent in his eyes. He positions himself half on top of Stiles, arm resting up by Stiles’ head, hand sliding into Stiles’ hair. He trails his fingers down Stiles’ bare stomach, steady and methodical, eyes not leaving Stiles’ for a second. Stiles gasps as he feels Derek’s hand wrap around his cock, surging up to crush his mouth against Derek’s. He tries to get his own hand between them, wants the weight of Derek’s cock in his palm but the angles all wrong.  

“Stiles wait,” Derek says, hand letting go of Stiles’ dick. “Like this.”  And then he’s rolling them until they’re both on their sides.  He shifts a little more, angling himself so his cock is lined up against Stiles’. When Derek wraps his hand around both of them Stiles loses all ability to focus.

“Fuck.” He clings to Derek’s shoulder, hips driving into the tight circle of Derek’s hand. He’s already coming when it actually registers that that’s what’s happening and then there’s nothing until he opens his eyes and Derek’s there inches from his face.

He’s smiling and Stiles can feel himself grinning too.

*

Eventually the rumbling of Stiles’ stomach gets too much for both of them and they head to the kitchen.

The leftover lasagna belongs to Cora. Derek tells him with more than a little smirk of amusement that Cora specifically said if Stiles eats any of it she'll rip his throat out. Instead, Derek makes them grilled cheese and they share a bag of potato chips from Stiles’ jeep.

“Why here?” Stiles asks after they’ve finished eating, pushing his empty plate away and resting his chin in his hands. It’s the question he’s wondered every time he’s added a dot to the map.

Derek leans back in his chair, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards with what must be a memory. “This is an old a family place,” he explains, “Our Great Aunt Marla’s house.”

Stiles is entirely unused to seeing Derek happy about anything to do with his family and he finds himself stretching his foot out to tangle it in with Derek’s, to share in some of that happiness. Derek looks at him and smiles fully and it’s all Stiles can do not to clamber over the table and into Derek’s lap. Because he’s pretty sure that would just devolve into kissing and groping – not that that would be a bad thing at all - and Stiles wants to hear what Derek has to say.

“She lived with us in Beacon Hills,” Derek continues, “but she always spent the summer here. Every year she’d pack a bag the last week of April and we wouldn’t see her again until the Harvest Moon. She used to complain that we got under her feet and that she didn’t have time for our childish nonsense but when she was in the right mood she was the best storyteller.”

“She sounds nice,” Stiles says, tapping his foot against Derek’s when the other man doesn’t respond.

“She was.” Derek drags his eyes away from the window and back to Stiles. “I was ten years old the year she didn’t come back.  My mom said she'd decided the live out the rest of her years up here in the forest. But Marla was special like my mom: they could both fully shape-shift. I always wondered if that was what my mom meant, that maybe Marla decided she preferred life as a wolf and that was why she didn't come back."   


“Do you think she’s still up here?” Stiles asks.

“I don’t know. We’ve looked. Haven’t found anything yet. But it feels… safe. I need that for Cora. After everything that’s happened I need to give my sister that.”

There’s a fierce look of determination on Derek’s face but it’s not full of the fear and revenge that had so obviously being his driving force before. It’s warmer and more positive and Stiles is struck by how much he wants Derek to have that, to have a home and a family.

This time Stiles doesn’t even try to stop himself from launching across the table at Derek, kissing him until they’re both out of breath, tripping over each other on their way back to the bedroom.  

*

Stiles wakes just as it’s starting to get light outside, the room just bright enough for him to make out Derek’s face on the pillow next to him. He looks softer and younger than he does when he’s awake and that’s just the beginning of the catalogue of new things Stiles has learnt about Derek in the last twenty-four hours. The way his smile lights up his face, the way his shoulders jerk up and down when he laughs. The cut-off moans he’d made as Stiles sucked down on his cock, swirling his tongue around the head until Derek cried out. The softness of his fingers making lazy swirls on Stiles’ chest as they lay there afterwards.

“Stop it,” Derek mutters, startling Stiles backwards.

“Stop what?”

“It.”  Derek’s eyes are still closed. “Stop. It.”

And okay, Stiles knows that sometimes he thinks so loudly that the rest of his body moves reflexively in reaction and maybe he’d been staring a little intently but what do you really expect when he’s sharing a bed with a naked Derek Hale.    

“We had sex,” Stiles grins. “ _I_ had sex. _With you_.”

Derek opens his eyes finally, equal parts amused and exasperated. “I know. I was there.” He grabs Stiles by the waist and twists him around until he’s facing away from Derek.

“Hey!” Stiles complains, but he doesn’t actually have the energy to do more than move where Derek puts him.

“Go back to sleep,” Derek gruffs, shuffling forward until he’s pressed against Stiles’ back, breath catching on Stiles’ ear. It’s new and strange, this closeness with another person, but it feels familiar too, because hasn’t he imagined this, him and Derek, so many times? But unlike his imaginings this is tangible and solid. Real. It feels safe in a way Stiles hasn’t felt in a long time, not since the darkness started creeping out of the shadows. He reaches back and pulls Derek’s hand over his waist, lacing their fingers together. Falls asleep to the rise and fall of Derek’s chest on his back.

*

“You’re going back,” Derek says the next morning.

When Stiles woke up again Derek was gone. It had taken him a moment to work out where he was and that everything that had happened had really happened. He’d pulled on his clothes, stumbled down to the bathroom and then finally found Derek outside on the porch with a steaming mug of tea and another one of his books.

“So?” he’d said.

“Breakfast?” Derek replied, and now they’re sitting in the kitchen with a half-eaten plate of toast between them.

“You’re going back,” Derek says. It’s not an order but not a question either.

“And you’re staying,” Stiles replies. Even if he thought he had the right to ask Derek to come back to Beacon Hills he wouldn’t. For reasons he’s only just beginning to understand he knows that he needs Derek to be safe and happy for his own sanity as much as anything else and he can see that this place suits Derek in a way that Beacon Hills never did.

Stiles leans across the table and plants a kiss on Derek’s lips, backs away just slightly and raises his eyebrows in a challenge.

Derek leans forward, lips millimeters from Stiles. “Eat your breakfast.” He playfully swats Stiles back to his own side of the table and as much as Stiles wants to scowl he knows that he’s smiling.

“Fine,” he huffs, grabbing up a piece of toast and making a show of taking a bite. “Just so you know,” he says, words muffled by a mouthful of crumbs, “I’m going to come and visit. A lot.”

“I don’t think I could stop you even if I wanted to.” Derek rolls his eyes but he’s smiling.

*

“So Derek’s your anchor huh?” Scott says. “That’s pretty disturbing dude.”

Stiles makes a face at the voice coming from his phone. “Because he’s a dude?”

“Because he’s _Derek Hale_ ,” Scott clarifies.

Stiles is halfway back to Beacon Hills. He’s already called his dad and apologized for skipping town for a few days. The call was a strategic maneuver as much as anything; this way he could turn the volume down on his dad’s lecture about how texting and saying you’re safe is not the same as telling him where you are. It had lasted as long as Stiles had expected it would and he’s under no illusions that there won’t be more lectures when he gets home but he’s gotten the first one out of the way and that one’s always the worst.

Then he called Scott because he hasn’t spoken to him for three days and that just feels weird.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Stiles agrees because yeah, how did his life end up here? “But he’s not my anchor and you know why he’s not buddy? Because anchors are a werewolf thing and in case you’ve forgotten I’m not a werewolf.”

“I know that, dude,” Scott says, sounding adorably indignant. “But an anchor’s just the same as the tether stuff Deaton was talking about; something that keeps us connected to the world.”

Truthfully, Stiles has been more than a little skeptical of the whole idea since he spent 16 hours in a bathtub of ice and no offence to Lydia but she didn’t do much in the way of pulling him back out. But he thinks about how the knot in his stomach had loosened with every mile he’d driven away from Beacon Hills and how if you looked at it another way the knot in his stomach had loosened the _closer_ he’d gotten to where Derek was. Fuck, on his phone right now there’s a line on a map that runs from Beacon Hills straight to Derek Hale and if that’s not the cheesiest symbol of a tether between two people, Stiles doesn’t know what is.

“Fuck,” Stiles laughs in astonishment. He laughs at the ridiculousness of it all. It feels good. “I am so screwed.”

Scott’s laughing too. “Yeah, dude, you totally are.”

[fin]


End file.
